


The day is done

by SmellyKelo



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Gen, US Open 2019, after the match, just a conversation, us open 2019 men's singles final
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 02:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20940638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmellyKelo/pseuds/SmellyKelo
Summary: Rafa and Daniil talk after their match at the US Open 2019 men's singles final.





	The day is done

**Author's Note:**

> I am a month late in posting this. I had the draft prepared, and then I waited to see if someone write what I want to read. There was a nice US Open final aftermath story - a family story, I liked it, but it was not what I originally wanted to read. Then I remembered the age-old saying - 'Write the fic you want to read!' So here is the fic I wanted to read, even if nobody else wanted this.
> 
> I am so late because I felt self-conscious - like, nobody wants to read this, people would laugh at me if I write this, what on earth is this even, and so on. But now I have thrown all caution to the winds, as the English expression goes. I hope you enjoy this! It is really short, would not waste much of your time!
> 
> The usual disclaimer: Not real. Only a product of my (fertile :P) imagination.

_It is done_. That is the first thought that comes to Rafa’s head as he turns off the shower. It has been the wildest match that he has played in recent times. Fortunes had swung just as he was in sight of the end, and then it was back to square one before he got his thoughts together… Anyway, it is done. He is just happy that he has made it. He cried on the court, of course he cried, but those were tears of joy. And the feeling – no, knowledge, that he does not have many more such moments left in life. Everything will end one day. Not that he is disheartened; he would bear it as he has borne every other inevitable matter in life, but as he is nearing the end he finds that he is becoming more emotional, or rather, his emotions are showing themselves to the world.

As he towels his hair he realises that his whole body hurts. His legs do not feel his own, neither do his arms. He bends forward and touches his knees. He hopes they are okay. On court he had been running on adrenaline; now as he has showered and cooled off, his body is informing him of his age. Well, he only has his press duties left, then he will sleep as long as he wishes.

He wraps the towel around his shoulders and gets out of the shower cubicle. He debates taking another towel, but decides against it. The corridor seems deserted, as is expected, because this is a players’only area, and today was the final, so there is no one around. Daniil finished his shower a while ago, Rafa had heard him moving through the corridor. He must be gone by now. Rafa would be alone in the locker room, he would get dressed there. But he wonders if he would be able to dress himself; his fingers do not seem to want to bend as he wants them. He might have to call someone.

As he steps into the room he discovers that he has been wrong to assume that Daniil was gone. For there he is, sitting very still on a bench, in sweatpants and sandals and a towel round his shoulders; with his right hand clutching the cross that he wears on a chain, head bowed over it. There is a pair of headphones over his ears. He is probably praying. On the low, glass-topped table in front of him are a teapot, a saucer with a cup, a spoon on a plate beside it, and a small box of sugar cubes. So he _had_ left the locker room, but has returned for some reason, with tea.

Rafa walks stealthily into the room, not wanting to disturb Daniil’s prayer. But he must have made some sound, for Daniil suddenly raises his head and opens his eyes just as Rafa has reached the bench on which his bags are. He stares at Rafa for a moment before lowering his head again and becomes very interested in drawing patterns with his foot on the tiled floor. Pink patches form on his pale cheeks.

Rafa feels a bit conscious about his own nudity. He should not bother really – in all probability a considerable part of the ATP has seen him naked in locker rooms, but he does not know Daniil very well - Rafa is a decade older, and Daniil is actually quite a private person. Sighing, Rafa wraps the towel around his waist and says, “You can look now.”

Daniil blushes deeper at the words but looks up all the same and gives him a slight smile. He removes the headphones from his ears and places them on the table. “You didn't think I would still be here, right?”

“Er -” Rafa considers. He did not think that, yes, but then, this is the locker room and Daniil has every right to be here. “I heard you walking, I thought…Did you forget something here?” Rafa knows he is probably not making sense.

But Daniil replies anyway. “No, I just wanted -” and stops suddenly.

“You wanted?” Rafa prompts, bending over his bag and taking out the body spray.

“Actually,” Daniil hesitates, then continues, “Thank you for being kind to me.”

_Kind? Was Rafa kind to him? What is Daniil talking about?_ He has been civil he supposes, but being civil is just what one should be. No need for thanks. He says just that. “I think - is good manners – be polite.”

“Well,” Daniil shrugs. “Not a lot of people are _polite_ to me.” He emphasises the word ‘polite’.

“Tú tienes tus - I mean,” Rafa amends himself, “you have your own problems.” He sits down on the bench and places the bottle of body spray on the floor, beside his right foot. He takes out a bottle of water from his bag and looks back at Daniil, who is looking at Rafa with a frown on his face.

“Do you mean,” Daniil says in a low voice, “Do you refer to that racism incident with the umpire? Then I must tell you I didn’t say anything like that – I did _not_ signify their race. I indicated their nationality. Shouldn’t have done that either, I know. But how do people _assume_ \- look, I am Russian – not really ‘first class’ out there, isn’t it?” He makes a gesture of quotations with his hands as he says ‘first class’.

Rafa sighs. It is always troublesome when race and identity come up. “I am certain you did not want to mean race. But I was not – er – referring to that.”

“Then is it my interactions with the spectators?” Daniil asks. “Don’t you think sometimes some people deserve it? When they annoy you so much that you can’t keep it together? Come on, you know how it is!” Daniil’s voice rises a little. “I know I shouldn’t have flipped – I’m truly sorry about that – shouldn’t have said things to the umpire either – but – well, I can’t be calm like _you_ all the time!” Daniil shrugs.

“And I hear people call _you_ Iceman!” Rafa laughs. “Also I am not calm all the time.”

“Well, there _is_ someone who annoys the hell out of almost everybody,” Daniil mutters shrewdly, with a small smile puckering a corner of his mouth. “But there are many who find his antics entertaining.”

“I don’t,” Rafa says promptly. He knows very well who Daniil is referring to. “I think it is just bad manners. Gives the sport bad image. And he brings out the bad things in everyone.”

“Then there is someone,” Daniil continues, more to himself than addressing Rafa, “Someone who is half Russian by blood but who insulted me for my identity.”

Rafa shakes his head. _Identity_. Why do people these days use that word in every second sentence! He comes from a country that is riddled with problems regarding identity – race, language, culture, and a violent past. In his childhood those wounds were more open. They are still deep. But in his childhood people did not live and breathe that word like these days. He does not express any of this to Daniil, of course. He just says, “Is not nice to bitch about people.” In his mind he thanks Andy Roddick for the expression.

Daniil falls silent and becomes thoughtful, his gaze on the ceiling. Rafa digs into his bag to take out some clothes, and his right foot makes an involuntary movement and kicks the spray bottle. It rolls away with a clatter.

“Mierda!” Rafa swears loudly and makes a move to stand up, but Daniil has moved before he has thought of it, and comes back with the bottle. He kneels on the floor and places it exactly where it was.

“Thank you,” Rafa says. “And I have to say you are fast.”

“Thank you,” Daniil addresses Rafa’s feet, still kneeling. “But you were faster on the court.”

“Barely,” Rafa admits. “You were brilliant! You made me run and run and run. My whole body hurts now, believe me.”

“Still you won,” Daniil murmurs, not raising his head. “I threw everything I had at you, and you had answer to everything, and something more than that. Yet you have ten years more than me.” He sighs.

Rafa feels sorry for him. Anybody would be disappointed after turning around the course of a match like that and still losing. He tries to console the young man. “I have also ten years of experience more than you, Daniil.”

At his name he raises his head and takes both of Rafa’s hands in his own. His palms are warm and sweaty. Probably due to the tea, Rafa supposes. “Please don’t think I feel bitter or anything.” Daniil’s voice sounds pleading. “I really meant it when I said I congratulate you – you are great – and you have always been nice to me.”

_That, again_. Rafa shakes his head. “I don’t think you are bitter. And I don’t have any problems with you, Daniil – you are alright with me.”

“I like how you say my name.” Daniil smiles. He has not released Rafa’s hands.

Rafa is at a loss for words for a moment. _Should he acknowledge what Daniil just said?_ It is nothing, really; a lot of people told Rafa that they liked how he pronounced their names... Rafa decides to let it go for the time being, and changes the conversation. “I have ten years of age more than you, too. Which means my legs hurt. And arms. Wrists, fingers, hips, knees, everything. When you are young you recover fast. Not when you are old like me.”

“You are not old,” Daniil says at once. “Out there you would be considered young – early thirties is nothing. Here you are a veteran of the game, that’s all.” He releases Rafa’s hand. “And you had more injuries than most.” He touches Rafa’s knee – it is a feather-light touch – and traces the scars with a finger.

Rafa shivers. He is almost on the verge of saying _What are you doing?_, but stops himself. Daniil rests his hand on Rafa’s knee and looks up. “If I ever achieve a sixth of what you have achieved, I would consider myself successful,” he says with feeling.

“I am sure you will be great,” Rafa responds. He is speaking the truth. “You have shown what you are made of. You got in my head. And you hurt me physically.”

Daniil’s face falls. Seeing that, Rafa quickly tries to clarify. “Oh, I not say you hit me! Don’t look like that! I say I am hurting so much that I can’t get dressed!” He cannot believe he has said that!

“Sorry about that.” Daniil gives a curious smile.

“You can make up for it.” Rafa offers him his own curious smile, and again thanks Andy Roddick in his mind for the expression.

“How?” When Daniil says that single word, his voice has changed – it is low, and different.

“Help me get dressed,” Rafa replies, lowering his voice.

Daniil stares. “You mean -”

“Yes.” Rafa does not let him finish the sentence. He pushes his t-shirt and jeans into Daniil’s hands. “I cannot stretch, cannot bend – so help me.”

Without another word Daniil stands up and puts the t-shirt over Rafa’s head. He carefully pushes his arms into the sleeves and smooths down the front. Then he sits back down on his calves and hesitates.

“Come on!” Rafa exclaims, feigning impatience. “We both have press duties – not much time.”

“I – um -” Daniil drops his gaze to the floor. “Don’t you need to – you know – wear some undergarments?” His neck starts turning pink.

“Cannot be bothered now,” Rafa replies, smiling to himself. He is probably torturing the poor guy, but really he cannot feel his legs or his feet.

“Don’t know how you can wear jeans without something under it,” Daniil mutters to himself. “No, don’t tell me,” he raises his head and holds up a hand, “I don’t need to know.”

He pulls the jeans upto Rafa’s knees and stops for a few moments, his fingers hot on Rafa’s knees. Rafa says nothing; he can feel his own skin heating up, and he feels embarrassed. This was not supposed to happen. They were just having a normal conversation, and Rafa really needed help – _this_ should not have happened. His fingertips should not be tingling, his knees should not be trembling – _honestly Daniil would feel it!_ And seems like Daniil _has_ felt it, for he recovers from his hesitation and slips a hand under the towel. Rafa sits very still, his heart hammering in his chest, his heartbeat so loud that he is certain Daniil can hear it.

Daniil caresses Rafa’s thigh with heated fingers, drawing patterns on the heated skin. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, his breath coming out of his mouth in short gasps. There are beads of sweat on his upper lip. The heat between them is tangible. _It does not matter_, Rafa tells himself. Whatever happens here does not matter. It is nothing. It is just the leftover adrenaline from the match, all the tension and struggle out there in the court. And before he has realised it, he finds his fingers digging into Daniil’s bare shoulder.

It ends as suddenly as it had begun. One moment Daniil’s fingers are pressing into Rafa’s thigh, causing a delicious burn – Rafa could feel his legs! – the next moment he has pulled away his hand and dropped his head on Rafa’s knee, trembling.

“Daniil, is okay!” Rafa utters in a hoarse voice and holds Daniil’s shoulders to keep him from falling. He composes himself within minutes and sits up, with his hands pressed to the bench on either side of Rafa.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what -” Daniil starts, but Rafa places a hand on his mouth.

“I say is alright!” Rafa whispers. “Don’t say anything.” He is disappointed, he must admit, but - _why on earth is he disappointed!_ He curses himself inwardly. He threads his fingers through Daniil’s hair. At that touch Daniil reaches up and touches Rafa’s forehead with his own. “You are really nice to me, you know.”

Rafa can almost taste the words on his tongue. He hums in his throat and leans closer so that their lips are just shy of touching. “What you wanted, Daniil?”

“I’m married, you know,” Daniil murmurs, his breathing uneven.

“And I am going to be married,” Rafa responds. “What difference it makes? This is never going to happen again, no?”

“No. Really. What difference does it make?” Daniil sighs into Rafa’s mouth and closes the distance.

Their tongues touch, and Rafa is almost overpowered by too much sweetness. _How much sugar does he take with his tea?_ He closes his eyes and melts into the kiss. Daniil’s arms are around his shoulders; he feels a light sting on his right shoulder blade – probably one of Daniil’s nails. They break the kiss when they need air, and that is it. Daniil sinks to the floor. Rafa stands up and pulls on his trousers and sits down on the bench again. He still cannot feel any of his limbs, but that is due to another reason entirely.

“Do you need help with your shoes?” Daniil’s small voice startles Rafa out of his thoughts.

“Er – I think I can manage,” he replies.

“No, let me.” He helps Rafa with his socks and shoes, then stands up. “Got to go. Quite late.” His voice is back to normal.

Rafa watches as Daniil puts on a shirt and packs up his things. He smiles when Daniil puts the box of sugar cubes into a small pocket of his bag. Seeing his smile Daniil smirks. “I love sweet things. Cannot help myself.”

“Thank you for everything, Daniil,” Rafa says warmly. “And sorry about earlier – I interrupted your prayer.”

“You interrupted -? Oh, I wasn’t praying!” Daniil laughs lightly. “I was listening to this song. Here -” He offers Rafa the headphones and starts the song. It is Russian, so Rafa does not understand, but he closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him. The tune is beautiful, sad, and old – as if it has seen ages and places that man has only ever dreamt of. It lasts for a little over three minutes.

“It is very soothing,” Rafa says, handing Daniil back his headphones. “What is it about?”

“It is about a journey, to reach this valley,” Daniil replies.

“What valley?” Rafa asks. Probably a stupid question.

“Oh, it is not a literal valley,” Daniil answers. “It can be your dreams – goals – aim in life, like that. How far you have to go to reach the place.” His eyes light up as he goes into the explanation. “It does not tell you the end of the journey, because you never know where life will take you when you begin the journey. You just walk, and get inspired to reach the valley.”

“Very beautiful,” says Rafa. “I believe you will reach your valley, soon.” He takes the younger man’s hand. “All the best to you.”

“To you too,” says Daniil, hoists his bags on his shoulders, opens the door, waves goodbye, and is gone.

As the door shuts behind him, Rafa wonders what Daniil had actually wanted when he returned to the locker room with tea. He never said anything properly.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of this fic originated from the fact that after the final Rafa was so tired that he could not dress himself and needed help. And I thought, why not!
> 
> There really are old Russian ballads which talk of a journey to reach a desired place. They do not say what happens when you reach the end, because it is upto you to find out.
> 
> The title of this fic is after H. W. Longfellow's poem 'The day is done'.


End file.
